Rylan

Debauchery.

Sex. Lust. Excess.

Forbidden secrets.

This place overwhelms my senses, but Maplefield is a small town, and Utopia is the first of its kind in this area of Connecticut. For a small price, I gained admittance into the club, which wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be. Once my one-week probationary period is over, I will get my full-blown membership. Until then, a red lanyard hangs from my neck, telling everyone I’m off-limits and only allowed to observe.

One week never seemed so long before.

“First time here?” A middle-aged woman with porcelain skin sits down at the stool next to me. Her eyes hold that same awestruck quality that I imagine matches my own.

I return a genuine smile. “Yeah. How about you?”

She plays with the lanyard around her own neck. “I’ve been here a couple times this week, but my probation is almost over.”

“Are you here alone?”

The guess to my own question is no. While the woman had no problem striking up a conversation with me, she seems a bit too shy to have come here without someone else.

She points to a group of men across the room. “That man in the blue polo is my husband. A few of his work buddies come here, and it’s always fascinated us, as a couple. We finally decided to check it out.”

“Good for you!”

“What about you? Are you here alone?”

“I am.”

“I don’t think I would have been able to come here without my husband,” she admits.

The unknown, intimidating, or different doesn’t give me anxiety. If anything, it pushes me.

I left behind the last of my vanilla existence the second I walked through that door and signed my name on the dotted line. I need to continue pushing boundaries to discover experiences that curl my toes and paint my fantasies. According to the paperwork, this place will do just that—providing that my behavior here isn’t illegal and is safe for all members, that is. Having sex in front of an audience? That’s perfectly acceptable here. Mixing pain and pleasure? Yes, please! Giving control of my body to another? Permission granted!

I’ve always been curious about sex. Porn became a part of my routine at a young age for a girl, and losing my virginity wasn’t scary for me. It was thrilling. Powerful. I’m not into BDSM culture, and I don’t have any crazy fetishes, but I need excitement. There isn’t much I would say no to until I at least try it once. I have a few hard limits, but I try to stay open. This is the place for me to continue pushing my limits.

“In the past, I’d been with guys who liked routine and predictability, and it drove me mad. I was bored out of my mind. Some would balk if I suggested anything a little outside the box, but others would try, which was almost worse. I’d end up with watered-down versions of what I actually wanted because my exes were too timid or too unimaginative to give me what I needed. As a single woman, if I want more, then I need to go after it.”

Since saying good-bye to the last in a rather long list of disappointments, I’m ready for everything Utopia has to offer because my sexuality is ingrained into the person that I am. Sex has always been how I connect, communicate, and express myself.

This makes my job perfect for someone like me. I’m an explicit sex columnist.

Thanks to my employer, I live, breathe, sleep the world of kink.

“Young, single, and you know what you want. You’re a catch! Wait, I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Rylan.”

“Nice to meet you, Rylan. I’m Janet.”

“Good to meet you, too.” I relax and take in the room around us.

Physically, Utopia is as I expected, but the atmosphere is where the expectancy ends. For a place that seems low budget from the outside, it’s actually pretty comfortable inside. Music plays softly throughout the room, and women who bare their flesh dance in cages to their own slow, tantric rhythm. The naked dancers are tame for this world though. They are a part of the decor, the ambiance. Tables fill this front room facing a stage that, for now, is dark and empty. The back rooms are where most of the fun happens and are off-limits to me during my probationary period. So, instead of playing, I’m at the bar, sipping water since alcohol isn’t served here because it blurs the lines of consent.

“I didn’t expect there to be so many people here. Small town and all,” Janet comments.

Our conversation ends before I can respond. A vibration fills the room as the music is cranked louder, and a spotlight hits the stage. Men in leather wheel out a woman hooked up to a sex swing. Her legs are spread open, dangling through straps, and her arms are bound to opposite sides of the contraption. The only thing she’s wearing is a blindfold, and if someone wasn’t paying attention before, they are now. I follow suit, ready for the live sex show. My fellow probationary friend beside me swallows audibly and nods at me before she returns to her husband’s side. He envelops her in a loving hold as they watch.

The men in leather exit the stage, and three others enter the spotlight, surrounding the woman. One carries a crop and another a wand vibrator while the third secures clamps to the woman’s nipples. Their faces are stern as their hands begin to explore the woman’s body. The man with the crop drags the leather down her front. The vibrator comes to life in the hands of the second man, and the third tests a gentle tug of the clamps. As they continue, she yelps and moans while she’s hit repeatedly with the crop. She thrusts her body when the massager touches her pussy. She begs for more when the last man tugs on the clamps.

They shout orders at her, and she responds as a submissive would.

Her answers are always followed with a softly spoken, “Sir,” when she asks permission for her pleasure.

It isn’t the brutal indulgence or the display of control that has my panties wet. It’s the freedom. There’s no judgment here. Sex isn’t considered a taboo subject or only meant for two people behind closed doors in the dark. The club is a place to celebrate sexuality without fear of judgment. This is exactly where I belong.

Then, the mood changes with one swift falling object. Naked flesh plummets from the rafters above the stage. The Doms curse, but the submissive woman is unaware since she’s blindfolded. They struggle to get her free from the swing, and in their haste to get her off the stage, the strip of fabric over her eyes is knocked off. Her screams pierce the room at a shockingly loud decibel, but no one listens. Everyone is too busy screaming themselves and running for the nearest exit.

I revel in it.

A naked man with a dark fauxhawk lies in a lump on the stage. A ball gag is shoved into his mouth and strapped around his head. Perfect for the BDSM theme—well, it would be if it weren’t for the number five that is carved into his flesh from his collarbone to the top of his naval. He’s dead, without a doubt, and everyone else in this room knows it, too.

Excitement grows in the pit of my stomach as the chaos unravels around me. I uncross my legs and then cross them again, trying to ease the building throbbing. I don’t take my eyes off his lifeless form showcased under the bright lights until I’m pushed off my stool and pulled along with the wave of club members. This place just became a crime scene, and most don’t want to be caught at the club the town pretends doesn’t exist. I begin to move, but my steps falter, and I take one more look toward the stage.

I leave Utopia and am in my car, traveling home, before the first siren cuts through the night.

There is nothing vanilla about murder.